Written
by Stars.Are.Metaphors
Summary: The first note frolics in semi-circles to the floor.


**Genre: Romance.**

**Paring: Katniss/Peeta.**

**Rating: M.**

**Disclaimer: HG is not mine.**

**Summary: The first note frolics in semi-circles to the floor.**

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**Written**

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The first note frolics in semi-circles to the floor.

Katniss eyes the piece of paper warily, squints at the blue-lined note folded in neat halves.

She releases the cold metal of her locker door and bends down, picks the note off the floor with two fingers. She sees now that one half has ragged edges, as if someone tore the paper off in haste.

Curiously she tugs it open, reads the wavy lines and stops just seconds at the curls of the 'a's', something similar of a slant.

_I really love your legs_

She nearly chokes on her own saliva, turns about on her feet so fast her right shoulder hits the locker door with a smack, the sound ringing across the almost forsaken hallways.

No. Fucking. _Way_.

Someone did not just write her this—this… _This_. What is this supposed to even be?

She must be out of her ever loving mind, but her sight shifts from her inspection of whoever could have had the nerve to play hide-and-seek, to her bare legs in the stupid gym shorts she hardly ever wears. Coach Boggs wanted an afternoon track run for P.E. and it's got to be somewhere around the hundred degrees out there, no fucking way was she going to die of a heatstroke.

She catches a frail trail of hair she must have missed during her morning quick shave at the side of her calve, a blue, purple bruise mantling her knee from two days ago when she stepped on her shoelaces and fell trying to catch the bus. And never mind the pale scar at the side of her left thigh, an inch in its length from that time she went hiking in the woods and got cut open by a branch.

Never wearing shorts in the woods again, she can tell you that.

Whatever this joke is about, she wants no part of it.

Katniss crumples the piece of paper in her hand and throws it into a nearby trashcan on her way to lunch.

…

_I love it when you scowl. You pucker your lips and they start to look like ripe cherries. Do you taste like cherry, Everdeen?_

She clamps the new note inside her hands, staring wide eyed into her locker.

The second time in one day?

She slowly inches her head up, looks beyond the locker door obscuring her sight of the much busier hallway and scans the faces of her peers.

It could have been anyone of them. Anyone of those assholes could be harassing her right at this moment, because that's what it is. It's harassment.

But Katniss flushes anyway, despite herself, because she's scowling right now and whoever thinks it's funny to shove little notes into her locker might be watching the pout on her lips.

…

The third note comes one week later when Katniss almost, _almost_ manages to forget about the first two.

She had spent an extraordinary amount of time in the span of two days watching her peers with hawk-eye in the hopes of figuring out who was depositing the notes in the first place, but no one was acting out of ordinary. Students weren't looking at her and laughing as if sharing a personal joke in which she was the center of. Everyone's been treating her like they've always done. Katniss is neither here or there in their books and that's never been a problem.

But now it _is;_ it's most nerve-wracking. One of those students may be nurturing a personal vendetta and she's has no clue who she may have offended.

This note shimmies out of her chemistry book when she rises to leave for her next class. Her classmates are already vacating the room and she takes extra care to watch them in case one of them slips; peaks at her reaction. But no one does and they all quickly leave the room to waste as much of their thirty minute break as possible.

Katniss kneels to the floor, snatches the offending paper.

She feels her cheeks flame as her eyes skim through, and the slight skip of her heart fails to explain whether its reaction is one of mortification or… something else.

_I wrapped my hand around my cock thinking about you this week, Cherry-lips_

Who came close enough to reach into her chemistry book without her noticing in the first place, anyway?

…

It's an incongruous person, the note writer.

…

She doesn't like the way Cato Hemming stares at her.

He tends to cast his eyes, every now and then, towards her in the cafeteria and one of his elbows nudges the air-headed jock mate, all brawn no brain, at his side. The one Cato always seems to be competing against.

The air-headed jock turns his head from his slice of bread, manages to divide his attention even more between the multitudes of eyes following his wake, shifts in his perch on top of the table and follows Cato's stare.

Katniss quickly looks down at her book, scowling. She doesn't like the way that boy looks at her either with his morning sky blue eyes and their scattered stars—and how is that even possible? Stars only come out at night.

Madge pricks her fork into Katniss's shoulder, making her jerk up with a yelp.

''What,'' she squawks offended.

Her best friend narrows her eyes. ''Were you even listening?''

''Sorta,'' she mumbles, rubbing her shoulder. ''I was a little distracted with this book and all…'' She winces at how… _lame_ that sounded and tentatively tries to fall back on the subject of Madge's interests. ''You were talking about Gale, right?''

Her friend scrutinizes Katniss for a while and must have decided whatever's going through her head isn't worth the over-analyzing, because Madge tells her a bit tardy, ''He asked me out. I just can't decide what to wear.''

''Go for that blue strapless dress. Always suited you.''

But then again, everything suits Madge. She's the post work of the front cover of a Glamour magazine with her corkscrew curls and glossy lips.

Madge shakes her head, cascading her hair down the back of her shoulders. ''He already saw me in that one,'' and then she sighs. ''I need something new. Will you go to the mall with me?''

She scrunches up her nose, scoffing. ''Has he seen you in _all_ of your clothes?''

''I want to impress him, like really. Blow his mind out of his skull, literally drooling. None of what I own at the moment will do that.''

''If you want him drooling so badly how about going commando—extract all your clothes, that is.''

''Katniss!'' Madge admonishes, her cheeks flushing. ''Come on, _please_.''

She rolls her eyes. ''Whatever,'' she murmurs, which is, in all truth, just her giving in.

It's probably better this way. She might keep her mind of the notes for a while.

…

But it's the note-writer who can't keep his mind off her.

…

After the afternoon at the mall which hadn't been all that dreadful, she supposes, it may have been sort of fun watching Madge freak out over a date Katniss was quite sure hadn't left the tall, brooding Gale a night without sleep. They walked back to Katniss's car, bags slung over arms because shopping with Madge for one dress never meant _one_ dress. If there weren't any shoes included and at least one set of earrings Madge wouldn't consider it a successful day.

Katniss slings the car door open, aiming the newly purchased articles for the backseat and missing; the bags falling with a thud on the floor.

Madge screeches her name and runs for the back doors to straighten her purchases.

''Just a couple of fabrics, Madge,'' she says with a roll of her eyes though she can't hide the smile inching its way across her face. She's about to step into the driver seat when she sees it, stops halfway dead in her track with one foot off the pavement.

It's a green paper now; hard, but a few essences away from cardboard and it's lying in her goddamned car—for fuck's sake.

It scares her a little how tentatively she picks up the small paper, weighing it in her hand. She hears Madge grumble from the back seat, something about crazy brunets as best friends.

Katniss may very well be crazy, because the paper is still in her hand and there might be a stalker in the other and she's not sure she wants to throw any of that away.

This prankster is digging way too deep into her senses, he'll snap something if he isn't careful.

The paper isn't folded and the slants of the note writer's letters are dancing across the middle of the paper, bold with a black marker.

_That green dress would look good on you_

Her eyes flutter to her window screen, her nails digging into the paper. He was here and watched her eye that green dress she could never afford with its slender straps and its skirt short and wavy. Touch the fabric with gentle fingertips and allow its soft silk to drag out of her hand and sigh, shake her head like she was completely dense to even think about it—because she _was, _and walk away.

It's not like she would need a dress to begin with. Where would Katniss go to wear something so nice? She doesn't have dates lining up to fit into her admirable busy school, work and family schedule.

But it's nice to be acknowledged like that, even if it is by a stranger who qualifies for a restraining order.

She turns the paper around between fingers, curious to find if the only scriptures are the ones she has read, and they aren't. The back has tiny scribbles written with a pencil, almost like it was a foregone thought the note writer wasn't sure he wanted to share.

She bites her bottom lip as she skims through the words.

_It would look even better on my bedroom floor_

By the time Madge has taken her seat, Katniss has forcefully wrinkled the green note while trying to stash it hastily into her dashboard compartment.

…

Sometimes she'll wring the notes from the cupboard in her room and read them again. The point of the green paper will push into her bottom lip and her mind will wander off to hands she can never clearly picture, writing words she's not sure what to make off.

They're nice words though.

Very nice.

…

The notes arrive every day, most of the time two a day. Sometimes the note writer outdoes himself and hides at least four. The notes fall out of her locker, hide in her textbooks, twice she's found a note tugged into the zipper of her backpack, waving the evidence of intangible fingertips into the air. And they're getting dangerous, too. He talks about her like he's been invested with her for far too long to be just a prankster. It's not simply the moments he writes about the freckles dusting her nose, or her lips he wants to taste in order to figure out if they're ripe cherries or sweet berries. It's not just her legs he wants wrapped around his waist or his cock he wants to bury deep into her pulsing heat so he won't be able to tell where he ends and she begins.

It's not just her braid he wants to wrap his fist around or his lips he wants to skim over the swells of her breasts. He's not just after the heat of her mouth or the taste of her _pussy_.

The note writer wants to kiss her lips, just because, and watch the wrench of her eyebrows crumple when he makes her smile and he wants to hear her laugh, because he doesn't think he's ever been _privileged_ enough to witness it. He's got something with her braid, his hands tend to twitch when she's close enough to reach, cup her head, and drag his fingers down the bindings and into the strands.

Its dangerous territory the note writer is skating over.

…

She picks up the scent of cinnamon on her latest note like his fingers were dipped into the spices and drawn all across its surface. Another sentence, albeit unreadable, words even the note writer couldn't formulate on paper.

She hides her head in her locker, shields away from her peers and brings the paper to her lips. The edge touches her nose and she inhales deeply, brushing her lips slightly to and fro as if she could chase out more words with just a kiss.

It reads:

_I need you_

She may just need him, too.

…

When she visits her locker after English class and there's another note perched lightly on top of her Chemistry book, she knows he knows.

_You don't know how many times I've thought about those lips around my cock, Katniss, you don't._

He saw her kiss the piece of paper, inhale it's scent, store it in her mind for the nameless, faceless guy she has created; who hovers over her when her fingers climb inside her panties, who murmurs his endless storage of words into her ears as he watches her come.

_Who are you_? It's not the first time she's asked herself this, not the first time she's wondered what would happen if she discreetly left a note on her desk asking him to meet her, and if the note writer watches her as preciously as she assumes he does, surely he would find her note, end his voiceless silence and approach her.

She folds her legs together tightly, the twist in her abdomen and the gush of wetness sliding between her folds telling her exactly what would happen if they were to meet.

…

She watches her locker for two days straight and receives two new notes stuck to the underside of her desks when she does pry herself to go to class.

On the third day she gives up catching her note writer in on his act and leaves her perch from a classroom corner. Katniss scowls as she turns around to march back into class, feeling more than a little defeated, and collides face first with a broad chest.

Firm hands reach up to grasp her upper arms and steady her on her wobbling legs, but she's ready to snap, irritated at faceless men with lack of balls and titillating words as she rips her arms away from the wall of muscle. She looks up, steel eyes narrowed at morning skies and silver sparks of stars.

At close-up she finds a craft of heaven on earth with sun colored eyelashes, long and downy, covering _blue_—knee weakening, breath taking _blue_—eyes and Katniss may just be rendered speechless.

''Everdeen,'' she hears, but the words don't fall from his lips, pale pink like faded roses, but from Cato. And when she focuses at the rest of the setting there's the blue-eyed-quarterback's best friend with a hiked eyebrow on his Adonis-like face, and Katniss suddenly realizes just who she's eyeing up and where the hell she is.

''Watch where you're going,'' she snaps and Peeta's eyes widen as she brushes abrasively past him on her way to class.

…

It's only when she's listening to Ms. Trinket's narration of the Civil War that she recalls the scent of cinnamon following her like a shadow to class.

…

She falls through the door of her bedroom, flopping on her bed, feet entangling with her sheets. She wrings a hand through the front of her pants, fingers finding heat and slick folds.

In the other there's a note with the scent of cinnamon vague after hours of inhaling. She does it again, her nostrils flare and her chest heaves; heady air infiltrating her lungs. With quick flicks across her hard bud Katniss is shuddering, muffling her cries in her pillow.

_Yes_—whoever her note-writer is, it's time she meets him.

…

The note sticks to the underside of her desk, pineapple scented and fresh like a forest.

She gets up, the legs of her chair screech over the floor's surface and her bag pack balances over one shoulder. The ring of the bell becomes a low hum, lost in the sound of talking students and footsteps eagerly scramming out of class, looking for their way back home.

Whether the note-writer shares a class with her or sneaks in during break to plant his seed, she doesn't look back.

…

There's no note in her locker, after. Not a piece of paper with ragged ends and curled 'a's sticking underneath her desk, but the one she left for him is gone.

Maybe he doesn't want to meet her. She may have fallen right into the middle of a prank—and fuck—Katniss _knew_ it was all about getting into her head, catching a couple of laughs at the expense of the quiet kid who couldn't be bothered to smile at a baby.

She doesn't allow herself to believe that someone else could've gotten to the note before the note-writer, because why hasn't he left one, either?

…

He's silent for four days.

Cato stares a lot.

…

On day five she opens up _The Old Man and the Sea _in the middle of finishing a book review for English class and a flat paper flutters with butterfly thrusts to the table.

The first thing she does is look up and around. She's in a library and how the fuck had he known she'd pick up Hemmingway? She's more of a Mark Twain dork, that is. The only time she gave the supposition of maybe looking into a Hemmingway book instead of her usual taste was during English class—and Jesus fuck that just limited the potential scribes.

She goes through the names of her male classmates in her head as she scans the few faces in the library. Her eyes find the window, a flash of blonde catching her eye, but it disappears within the throng of passing students.

Katniss blinks, finally picking at the piece of paper and reading the letters. Once, twice—she's adjusting to his implication—thrice.

_If you had me, I would keep you in bed for days_

He doesn't give a specific yes or no, just the vague entrance of _could you handle me? _And;_ I think not._

Oh, she'll show him.

…

She catches Cato after football practice. The sky's already a purple hue and Katniss needs to hurry if she wants to get home on time and make dinner for Prim (which pretty much means ordering pizza or heating up leftovers, because Katniss can't cook to save her life), but first she needs to know the identity behind the note-writer. It's driving her nuts.

Her fingertips dig into his upper arm and he stops immediately to look back with a scowl, like _who the hell even dares to touch _him_, right? He's Cato for Christ sake's_!

She rolls her eyes.

When he sees it's her, the corners of his mouth lift up into a lecherous smirk and Katniss shudders unpleasantly, trying to maintain the crease between her eyebrows so she doesn't seem out of her comfort zone or worse—scared.

''Hooking up—with me—in my _car_. Shit. Well, Katniss, color me unsurprised. I'll take you up on that one, _yes_.''

Her stomach coils uneasily. ''What even? I didn't—'' she frowns at the expanding smirk on his face.

_Duh_, of course. She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath and looks up at him again.

She takes another shot, opens her mouth to ask in the most subtle of ways if he may or may not have been putting sexual-arousing-sometimes-tender-little-notes in her locker and underneath her desks, and how the hell did he know green was her favorite color? ''I—''

She sniffs again, and again. She inhales deeply, making Cato's eyebrows twitch in either confusing or repulsion—but whatever.

''You,'' she starts, narrowing her eyes as if he's a pseud and he recoils just for the slightest with a step back. ''You smell like citrus.''

''Oh—kay?'' He reacts affronted. ''I've been told it's very spicy.'' He wiggles his eyebrows. ''Sweet to the mouth and gets the panties sweating.''

''Sweet and spicy are not the same _thing_,'' she hisses, and then she shakes her head. ''Never mind. I need to go home. Bathe in scalding water.''

''Want some company?''

She turns swiftly on her heels, a middle finger in the air.

…

She leaves another note and it's the final one.

She won't be following a ghost and she won't allow herself to come apart thinking about one either.

He has a choice—catch her or don't. She adds please at the bottom, because for all her spunk, there's something to be said about a boy who writes about her voice as something that could make the birds grow silent and listen.

…

He doesn't come. He leaves her falling so she ends up gathering all his written words and throwing it into her trashcan.

…

Whatever.

…

She's listening to _The Killers_, a pen in hand while trying to make sense of her Chemistry homework. There was a mnemonic Madge had thought her to remember the periodic table, a little song she tries to sing underneath her breath, but gets jumbled up with _All These Things I've Done_. She finds herself singing the song instead, rolls her eyes at her own incapacity.

At the second chorus the doorbell rings and Katniss has half a mind to scream Prim's name to get that, until she remembers that Prim is sleeping over at her friend's Rue's house. So, she gets up reluctantly and moves slowly towards the door, tugging on the sleeping short that have ridden high.

She opens the door with a vexing remark behind her tongue (it is eight pm. after all) and stops short at the sight of eyes that remind her, the sky's no longer morning blue.

There's a blush covering the boy's cheeks and his sun kissed hair is unruly and wild after dancing in the autumn wind.

He looks down at her; at her feet, traveling up her knees and across her thighs and this time _she's_ blushing.

''I really love your legs,'' Peeta Mellark tells her.

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**End**


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